


prison sonata (in the key of milkovich)

by bluehfk



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Behavior, Canon-Typical Violence, Drug Use, Dubious Consent, Homophobic Language, Light Angst, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Prison, Semi-Public Sex, Shameless Big Bang, Smut, Some Humor
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-05
Updated: 2020-10-05
Packaged: 2021-03-08 02:20:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26828005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluehfk/pseuds/bluehfk
Summary: centered around mickey's time in prison, leading up to his escape. picks up at the end of season 5 and acts as a filler for season 6&7.
Relationships: Ian Gallagher & Mickey Milkovich, Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Kudos: 4





	prison sonata (in the key of milkovich)

'I love you.'

Those were the three words that had torn down the walls Mickey had built around himself. Simple as they may seem, Mickey felt as if his soul was sucked right out of his body when they escaped his mouth. 

The words that he'd never said before he met Ian. Before that obnoxious redhead had barged right into his life and soon enough became the centre of it, expressing his love for Mickey in ways the latter knew he could not reciprocate. Not with his identity as a Milkovich; a tough Southside thug, one that he was to uphold for the rest of his life. 

Rare as it the occasion may be, every time he uttered a simple 'I love you' to Ian, it felt like a punch to the gut. But each time, he came back stronger than ever, more sure of the implications behind those words as he'd ever been. They promised unconditional support, care, empathy, sacrifice. Hell, Mickey was willing to give it all for him. 

To his dismay, Ian's expression remained blank as he did nothing but stare at Mickey from his spot on the porch steps, as if the words were never said. Ian's eyes, once a beautiful sea green Mickey loved losing himself in, was blank, staring right through the latter. Looking at Mickey but not really seeing him at all.

Mickey took a deep breath and willed his racing heart to slow down, which the cold winter air and the run he'd taken to get to the Gallagher house did nothing to alleviate. 

'What the hell does that even mean?' 

'It means we take care of each other.' Mickey silently willed Ian to understand. He had to be in there somewhere...

'I don't want you sitting around, worrying, watching me. Waiting for me to do my next crazy shit.' Ian's eyes were glassy, and - damn him - Mickey felt his own eyes beginning to tear up. 

'It means thick and thin. Good times, bad, sickness, health...all that shit.' Mickey was rambling now. 

Ian didn't even try to acknowledge how Mickey was feeling at that moment, however rational the latter thought he was being. How long had it been since Ian last took his meds? 

Mickey scolded himself internally for the way his mind automatically associated Ian's uncharacteristic behavior to his bipolar. Ian had been clear enough in saying he didn't need another caretaker. And Mickey had gone and turned into get another Fiona, Lip, hell, even the younger Gallaghers, for making Ian feel like shit. The thought alone instilled a bottomless pit of guilt in Mickey's gut. 

He cared about Ian. He was so deep in love, would do anything for the other boy; on meds or not, why couldn't he see it? Ian stuffed his hands in his jean pockets, turning to head back toward the porch. 

'So this is it,' Mickey murmured in in disbelief, willing his voice not to crack, 'this is you breaking up with me.' 

Ian sniffled, facing Mickey once again. It may as well be the last time. 'Yeah.' 

That was all he had to say? 

'Really?' Ian said nothing. The silence spoke for itself. 'F-fuck,' this time, Mickey's voice shook, his breath visible in the freezing winter air. 

All those years they'd been together, all the shit they'd been through and sacrificed had led to this moment. So it really was all for nothing huh. Just a couple of wasted 'I love you's and risking a fag-beating from the neighbourhood homophobes. For Ian, it was worth it, but at what cost?

The scene shifted. Mickey could still feel the aftershocks of Ian breaking up with him; the way his heart sank and the air around him became unbearably colder as the only man he'd ever loved took all the warmth in the world with him as he turned his back on Mickey and walked away from the life they could have had together. 

This time, Mickey was standing in front of the floor-length mirror in his own bedroom. It was hard to tell what time it was; the room was bathed in a soft yellow glow from the sunlight that filtered in from the window; cracked open to let a cool breeze in, bringing with it the smell of petrol, dirt, and something utterly familiar he'd couldn't place a finger on. It was the oh-so-pleasant trademark aroma of the Southside. 

Looking at his own reflection, it was like staring into the eyes of a stranger. For once, the permanent scowl he wore was nowhere to be seen. His skin was supple, clean-shaven and...was that the smell of roses? Since when did he use flower-smelling soap? 

He was also shirtless, naked save for the towel wrapped around his waist. He must've just had a shower; that would explain the weird rose smell that seem to emanate from his skin. 

'Are you coming to bed?' 

Mickey snapped out of his stupor. The voice that spoke was soft, yet familiar, and came from somewhere behind him. But it made the hairs on the back of Mickey's neck rise. 

Something didn't feel right. He never shared a bed with anyone else that wasn't Ian, or Mandy and Iggy when when they were kids. Sure enough, in the bed - his bed - behind him lay a figure that he'd failed to notice at first in his dazed state. 

He turned around to see Svetlana sitting on the bed, clothes nowhere to be found, leaning against the headboard and absently smoking a cigarette. What the fuck. She may be his wife but Mickey briefly recalled their silent pact to never sleep together. Not that they needed to, what with her hand-whore status and Mickey bring a big 'ol 'mo. 

Svetlana's job was to bang dudes left and right anyway, so what was the point in fucking her husband? Their marriage was a hoax to get Terry off his back after all. He was interested in screwing no one but Ian Gallagher. So what was his wife getting at? And where was the baby? 

Now the house was far too quiet, the only sounds being his own heavy breathing, the L train in the distance, and the rustling curtains in the breeze. 

Svetlana smiled at him lovingly, making his blood go cold. She never smiled at him like that. Whenever she did, it was sardonic, mocking. His wife was the skankiest, meanest whore he'd ever met who, as far as he was concerned, hated his guts. To her, Mickey was just a ticket to whatever life she wanted in the States, for reasons beyond him. Surely Russia couldn't be worse than this shitty life in the ghetto. Living in the Milkovich home no less. 

'Come here', she tried again when Mickey made no move toward the bed, curling one finger in a beckoning motion. Guess he had no choice but to comply. And of course to find out what the fuck he was doing here. 

After a moment of hesitation and Svetlana looking at him expectantly, Mickey climbed onto the bed, moving to sit beside her. Before he could make it, Svetlana grabbed onto a corner of his towel and threw it off to the side in one swift motion, exposing his naked body. 

'What the fu-' he was cut off as she suddenly pulled him down by the back of his neck and into a hungry kiss. To his absolute horror, he reciprocated the kiss with an equal amount of vigor. Was he - god forbid - actually enjoying this? What the fuck. All those thoughts flew out of his mind when Svetlana moaned into his mouth and pushed against his chest until he fell against the bed. 

She climbed over him, straddling his hips, eliciting a gasp from the man under her as she leaned down to capture his lips in hers once again. Mickey kissed her, hard, before she pulled away to guide his hand down to her entrance. Feeling how wet she was already, Mickey felt his dick harden with the anticipation with what was about to come. 

There was a nagging thought at the back of his mind, but Mickey couldn't focus what with the heat that was building deep within him, losing himself in the feeling of his wife. She was slick enough that Mickey's first finger slid right into her tight heat without the help of lube. 

Svetlana moaned into the crook of Mickey's shoulder as he moved the finger in and out, prepping her. He moved his hand faster as he added another finger, then three - until Svetlana was a panting mess. 

'Want you now', she gasped. Mickey wasted no time in pulling his fingers out of her, flipping them over until he was on top and reached toward the bedside table to where he recalled stashing the box of condoms. 

Less than a minute later, he was lining himself up with Svetlana's entrance. Without a moment's hesitation pushed in, all in one swift motion. Getting laid for a living probably had its perks, as Svetlana was easy to prep and took no time to get used to the cock inside her. 

'Move', she murmured, and Mickey pulled right out, before slamming back into her without warning, eliciting another drawn-out moan. He buried his face into the mattress beside Svetlana's head, continuing to thrust in and out, picking up the pace when she wrapped her legs around his waist to hold him in place. 

Their moans were the only audible sounds now. Mickey felt the knot in his lower belly tighten as he continued his ministrations. 

Then, without warning, Svetlana pushed him to the side until he was lying on his back, and clambered onto him once again. With a groan of disappointment, Mickey saw his still leaking cock lying limply against his stomach. 

As if reading his thoughts, Svetlana grabbed the base of his cock, lined herself up and sank right down onto him until he was buried to the hilt once again. Mickey watched himself slip in and out of his wife as she rode him with a newfound vigor. 

They moved in unison, both chasing their highs. Svetlana came first, her orgasm causing her to slow down. She placed both hands on Mickey's chest, head drooping as she caught her breath. 

But Mickey wasn't done yet. He rolled Svetlana over until she was lying on her stomach. The new position gave Mickey an unobstructed view of her perfect ass. Licking his lips, he grabbed her by the hips to lift her up. 

Svetlana pushed herself onto her elbows, ass in the air to give Mickey full access of her entrance. He grabbed his own cock - hardened once again - in one hand, his wife's shoulder with the other. Without warning, he slammed right into her wet heat. 

Svetlana moaned, and Mickey's vision went white with the overwhelming pleasure that rocked through his body. He thrust in and out again, then sped up the pace until he was repeatedly slamming into her. The knot in his lower abdomen tightened until he reached his climax, his movements becoming jerky and unrhythmic as he spilled into the condom. 

Spent, he pulled out and collapsed onto the mattress beside Svetlana, but not before tying the condom off and chucking it in the general direction of the trash can. 

He glanced to the side to see Svetlana already looking at him with a strange expression he'd never before seen on her. 

For the first time, Mickey recognised his wife's beauty. Of course, he'd always known she was attractive in an objective, Russian hooker way, but the way she was smiling, long hair fanning out across the pillow, the white bedsheets bringing out the warm olive tone of her skin, made it different somehow. 

Mickey swallowed. He returned the smile, hoping it didn't seem too much like a grimace. 

'I love you', Svetlana whispered. Mickey froze, the smile disappearing off his face in an instant.

What sense of comfort Mickey felt before flew out the window right at that moment. This wasn't right. Svetlana didn't actually love him. He didn't love her, either. Sure, the sex was great but even that seemed out of character for the both of them. 

Mickey realized that it was the first time he actually enjoyed fucking a woman. A real woman, with tits and a vagina and all - not some puny drag queen he'd picked up at a gay bar while drunk out of his mind. 

Svetlana looked at him in concern, her eyebrows furrowing. Then the edges of his vision darkened as he slowly began to slip away. 

Wake up, wake, up, wake up, Mickey silently prayed. He needed answers. Why was this happening to him? Did he and Svetlana really fuck or was it just a figment of his steady fucked up imagination? 

Turns out bad luck was on his side. Mickey briefly slipped out of consciousness - if that was even possible if you were already dreaming - and the next time he woke up from this strange dream within a dream, he was gagged and handcuffed to the bedpost. 

What he saw sent a shiver down his spine. 

Ian. There he was, leaning against the doorframe, staring down at Mickey with that blank expression yet again. It scared him. But he was here! The only person he wanted to see; the one he would always fight for no matter the cost. 

Mickey tried to reach out to him - tried to speak - but all that came out was a mumbled, incoherent mess. He grunted in frustration, just as Ian opened his mouth to speak. 

'Why, Mickey? Why did you do this to me?' he sounded so hurt, broken. 

Mickey's mind, although blanketed in a fog of confusion, heard those words clear as day and they pierced through his heart. He hated seeing Ian like this. 

Everything he'd done - all the fucked up things; attempted murder, betraying his own family, losing his father's trust - was all for Ian. The man he'd ever truly loved. And now he'd gone and ruined it all by abandoning him. Not to mention the cheating, with a woman no less. Despite having broken up, Mickey still felt the guilt buried deep bubble up, lodging in his throat, and silencing his noises of fear and frustration.

The other man's expression shifted into an uncharacteristically cold smirk, but this time the voice that came out of his mouth wasn't his, but Terry's. 

'I'm glad she fucked the faggot outta ya, kid'. 

Mickey woke with a start, bathed in a cold sweat despite the warmth of the prison cell. A single tear slipped down his cheek which he didn't bother to wipe away. He was spent, but nevertheless relieved that yet another nightmare was over with. After all, his emotions; all his fears, only ever showed up from the depths of his subconscious when he was asleep and unaware of his surroundings.

The cell was blanketed in darkness and judging from the snores coming from the bunk below him, it was still nighttime. It was hard to tell, though. Time passed differently in this shithole than out in the real world. Mickey refused to dwell on it. 

Thinking about the outside felt like a stab to the chest. The guilt, regret, longing, just to list a few - followed him wherever he went - not that there was much place to go when you were locked up in a maximum security prison. He hated feeling emotions. They were dangerous - led him out of control. And Mickey Milkovich liked to be in control. 

Blinking the remnants of sleep from his eyes, he let them adjust to the darkness. A soft glow filtered in from the single square window on the other side of the cell, too weak to illuminate the space in which he was caged. Not small enough to suffocate; just big enough to create the illusion of some sort of freedom to move around. It sucked that he had to share this tiny space with someone else. 

As much as he and Shia managed to stay out of each's hair, Mickey couldn't help but secretly resent the guy for invading his privacy. What little he could salvage in this tiny cell, anyways.

Not to mention he envied the guy for the life he'd had on the outside - before he had been thrown in the joint for his involvement in some international drug run some years back - according to the man himself, Shia had a family; a wife, kids who loved him, and enough money to be considered loaded from a lifetime of cartel membership. Too bad he was locked up to do anything with it now. 

The way the guy told his story (Mickey had heard it too many times to count on one hand), he was happy with his life. Of who he was. A dangerous fugitive with a loving family, people who had his back, loyal clients. But a fugitive nonetheless. 

The dream had felt so real that Mickey had to give himself some time out to slip back into reality. He pressed the heels of his palms against his closed eyes, willing that overwhelming feeling of nothing - of everything - recede back into his subconscious where they belonged. 

There was no point dwelling on the past, but Mickey felt that constant itch in that back of his mind - the voice - that kept nagging at him about unfinished business. He wasn't done yet - he wasn't supposed to be locked up in some prison cell - he was meant to be doing something. What exactly, he didn't know. But he sure as hell was going to find out, no matter the cost. 

Before he could dwell any longer on things out of his control, the buzzer sounded, signaling the start of a new day and the promises of bland prison breakfast. Mickey didn't mind the food in this shithole, though he had to live with the other inmates' constant yapping and complaining. What did they expect, for prison to be some kind of five-star hotel? Fucking idiots. 

With much effort, Mickey sat up and leapt down from his bunk in one swift movement, earning an eyebrow-raise from Shia just as their sliding doors opened with an obnoxious bang. 

'Hungry', he snapped in reply as he pushed past the guy with an exasperated huff, but not before giving him the finger in a standard prison-friendly greeting that roughly translated into 'good morning'.

**Author's Note:**

> hope you enjoyed! since you're here, I'm letting you know that I'm participating in a fundraiser for Red Cross' humanitarian aid in the current climate. If you'd like to contribute to a charitable cause, donate [here.](https://ko-fi.com/bluehfk) thank you and happy reading :')


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